


My Diameter to Your Radius

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Language, Medical ickiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal gets in an accident, Peter worries and a bit of basic geometry is discusssed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Diameter to Your Radius

**Author's Note:**

> October 11th is Matt Bomer’s birthday. I am posting this as a celebration! Whee!

_Yep, definitely a hospital._ Which one, he has no idea. Looking down at his leg, he knows it might be a good thing to be in the hospital.

_Yep, that does not look good._ He switches to looking at his watch instead because his leg looks kind of gross right now. Nine oh five. Missing the meeting which may or may not be a good thing depending on how you look at it. Considering there's a bicycle tire with spokes impaled and twisted around his leg, it might be a bad thing to be missing the meeting because the alternative - well, it just isn't all that great.

He glances around the triage bay and watches as the computer readout flicks to the screensaver. He briefly thinks about trying to figure out the password and playing around with the hospital files but he's never been a malicious criminal, just a clever one. Hospital records just lead to sad stories and painful ones at that. He'd rather not dip into that pool right now, not when he already knows his own life is a tragic mess.

_Mess as in epic portions. Like in the sense of Greek tragic mess_ He laughs a bit at that and something hitches in his chest and he looks down his hospital gown to see a large abrasion covering half his chest.

_That has got to hurt._ He screws up his face and wonders why it doesn't, in fact, hurt. For that matter why doesn't his mutilated bike-leg hurt at all?

_Well, that makes sense._ At least something does, as he lifts up his hand and sees the intravenous lines feeding him the mind numbing drugs.

_Oh, definitely cannot operate heavy machinery._ Of course there was that one time he needed a backhoe loader for a job, that was fun. He smiles, he likes John Deere tractors. He giggles again.

_This is good stuff. No pain at all._ He looks down at the bicycle spokes as they stab through the flesh of his calf, at his knee which contorts and might actually be facing in the wrong direction. There are several wrappings under his leg and a few ice packs around it. He hopes he can still jump off of buildings because that is a skill he needs. One never knows when one will need to leap from a skyscraper. He starts to chuckle and then his eyes fall on the cracked tracking anklet.

_That is definitely not good._ He frowns as he notices the little red light. Is he out of his radius or is it just not functioning correctly? Could Peter tell the difference? If he's out of his radius and the thing is still transmitting, then Peter with his entourage of Marshals will be here any minute. He waits and peers at the curtain of the triage bay expectantly.

_Okay, maybe not immediately._

_Okay, maybe it isn't working._ He leans over to tap it and the pain he wasn't feeling makes an entrance and he groans in response. His leg protests and the road rash tugs on his flesh. If he has that kind of rash on his chest, what the hell happened to his clothes?

The anklet is too far away to actually touch. Which is fine because he hopes he is out of his radius because maybe Peter will show up soon. Feed him some ice chips or something.

_Aren't ice chips a hospital staple?_ He scratches his head and notices a bandage on his temple. He fingers it and notes it goes down the length of his face. He cannot actually remember coming to the hospital. Surely, he didn’t walk.

He glances back at the anklet, willing it to call Peter. Maybe he isn't out of his radius, maybe he's still in it and the stupid light isn't working right. Of course he could still be within his diameter. He giggles again, he doesn't know if Peter realizes his diameter is bigger than his radius. Twice as big. Somehow that sounds dirty.

_Diamater is a dirty word._

"Man, that is my bike." The words interrupt a perfectly good train of thought, so Neal looks up to find a lanky barely-twenty-something staring at his tormented leg. He blinks a few times as the man-child surveys the damage. "Crap, look what you did to my bike."

Neal has a vague recollection of jogging across the street (and he was not jay walking) and this imbecile on a bike swerved into traffic. "I did?" He tries to sound indignant but it doesn't work with the slurring of his words from the drugs.

"Man, my dad is going to be so mad. He paid a thousand dollars for that bike." The idiot reaches out to touch the wheel and Neal hisses at him.

"My dad never bought me a bike, you little shit head."

"Whoa! Man, calm down. You got rage issues or something? You ain't going to sue me, are you?"  
Neal turns his head, he really wants to get back to thinking about diameters and radiuses and maybe even the circumference of a circle.

"Shit, what the hell is that?" The kid bends over and yanks on Neal's anklet. He lets out a small yelp of surprise mixed with a grimace of pain.

"It's my radius." Neal knows that isn't the right answer, but the drugs are fuzzing up his brain. He glances at the back of his hand and the tubes inserted into his veins. "My radius which is half of my diameter."

"Man, I'm calling the police. You did this on purpose." The demented bicyclist leaves and shouts at a nurse.

_Maybe that would be good. The police._ The police means sirens and loud noises and probably new wrist jewelry. Maybe he doesn't like the police. He likes Peter, though. Most of the time. Not all the time. Sometimes he's just another Suit. He likes suits, suits are nice. He didn't always like suits. He wanted to wear a uniform once, before, before the rain came down and washed away his life into the sewer.

_Greek tragedy, indeed._ He laughs and it hurts his torn skin.

"Something funny?" The nurse yanks the curtain open.

"I'm a tragedy waiting to happen," he says as he flinches from the pain.

"Sure you are, sweetie," she says and he thinks she must be someone's grandmother. "The surgeon will be right in. They have to get that thing off your leg right away. Nerve damage and all."

"I have nerve damage?" Maybe that's why he's completely numb and it has nothing to do with the drugs pumped into his hand.

She taps on the computer but smiles down at him at the same time. "No, no, not at all. Well, not yet."

"I have road rash."

The older nurse smiles again and pats him on the arm. "Well that happens when a utility van drags you for fifteen feet."

"What?" The van pulled him. No one helped him. "Why would they do that?"

"Well, the bike got caught, dear." She hushes him.

As he's about to ask more questions a small Korean doctor comes in and starts talking. Very fast and very accented. He flinches when the she yanks on the wheel and says something about lizards and small villages in the south. At this point he's fairly sure that makes no sense at all, even in his delusional state. Maybe he knew Korean at one time, he tries to break it down and spout back some responses in Korean but suddenly something is being pushed into the line and he's falling back on the gurney.

"Get it off!" the doctor says very clearly and they move his leg. He moans out a whimper because even with the new drugs they’re giving him the pain breaks through its barrier.

"No!" To save the bicycle wheel they're going to cut off his leg. He grapples and someone is injecting the port again. A clipping sound stops him and he watches as the tracking anklet tumbles to the floor. He murmurs a _bye Peter_ before he drifts off as the gurney starts to move down the corridor.

*oOo*

Peter wants to eat nails, big, sharp carpenter type nails. He needs to chomp down on them and pulverize them. He cannot believe what he's hearing, what he's looking at. But yes, he can believe who it is about. An alert came in at seven this morning that Neal's tracker went off line. It is now nine thirty-five and he's just being informed. Jones looks everywhere but at Peter, Diana is on the phone calling the Marshals. He thinks she'll whipped them into shape better than he can, but his main concern right now is Neal

"Where the hell is he?"

"We just have the info that his anklet went offline, right now." Jones hunches over the laptop at his desk, flicking through applications and files which Peter is very sure have absolutely nothing to do with his missing CI.

"This isn't good, not with the current state of affairs," he mumbles under his breath. He hasn't exactly let Jones in on the investigation into the Sam character and, now, knowing what he does about Sam and James and the whole Flynn operation - well the whole thing gives him the chills up and down his spine.

"Tell me something good, Diana."

She hangs up the phone and looks at him with a scowl on her face. "The network security over at the Marshal's office told me they had a systems upgrade last night which hit a few hiccups and didn't come back on line until this morning. They think Caffrey took advantage of the situation and ran."

"How would he know?" Jones says as he twists around to look at Diana. “They broadcasting when they’re taking their system off line. And why don’t they have a backup?”

"Just reporting what they said," Diana says and opens her hands. "Boss, what do you want to do?"

_What does he want to do?_

James, Flynn, Ellen, and the information in the locked box. His radar screams at him and, with hands on hips, he sighs and looks around the bullpen as if Neal might magically appear.

"They’re putting out an alert for him since they actually cannot say whether or not he went missing at seven this morning or sometime after midnight," Diana says.

"Put our own alert out for him. I'll call the little guy," Peter says and climbs up the stairs to his office. Of course the numbers he has for Mozzie aren't in service. He wonders how many cell phones Mozzie burns through in one week. Eventually it occurs to him to call Elizabeth to contact Mozzie. She agrees and wishes him luck on his chase, saying not to worry he'll find Neal - he always does.

_But in what condition?_ The last time Peter lost him, when he finally caught up with him again he had a bullet hole in his leg.

Mozzie doesn't pick up immediately so Peter leaves a message that might not have been all that kind or coherent. His fear ratchets up when he recalls some of the details from the thirty year old Flynn case file he's assembled.

_Damn it, Neal._

Diana comes to his rescue with Jones not far behind her. "Boss, Jones pinned down where Neal was when his anklet went off line."

"Not far from home actually. But what's more interesting," Jones continues. "There was an accident."

"Accident?" He's thinking a hit and run and his swallows down his fear like he's eaten those nails he wanted to chew on earlier. It feels sharp and barbed and raw.

"Bicyclist swerved into traffic, hit a jogger. The jogger caught on the bumper of a utility truck and was dragged about fifteen feet." Jones says and adds, "Reports from the scene, well, the jogger matches Neal's description."

"Christ, is he alive?"

"He's at the hospital now."

In a brief moment, Peter considers whether or not he should contact James - but discards that thought almost immediately. The man is nothing but trouble for Neal and the more space he can place between them, the better. He'll assess the situation first and then act. "Okay, let's go."

When they arrive at the hospital and cut through the red tape, Peter finds out Neal has been in surgery for more than an hour to repair a torn and twisted knee and to remove a bicycle tire from his leg. He isn't sure he even wants to think about what that means. The nurse reads out his list of injuries which don't seem too life threatening until she gets to the part with the impaled spokes from the tire, the possible nerve damage, and the issues with a bleeder during the operation.

He thinks he gags a little bit but is able to pull himself together to ask about the bicyclist. He wants to make sure it was an accident and Neal wasn't a target. They give him the name and he directs Jones to run down the lead. To his credit, Jones nods once, asks to be informed on Neal's status as soon as they know anything, and then leaves. Right now, Peter knows it isn't in his jurisdiction but really he could give a flying fuck.

They spend the remains of the morning drinking cold coffee, sitting in a waiting lounge that's made up to look like the local coffee shop, and watching a big screen with a list of patient numbers and their progress through surgery. By the time Elizabeth shows up at two in the afternoon he's bleary eyed and Diana leaves to go and assist Jones with the investigation. No one comes to get him when Neal's patient number disappears off the board and it takes another half hour to find out what the hell is going on.  
None of it is pretty.

He ends up racing down the corridor of the hospital as they wheel an unconscious Neal toward his room. Several US Marshal surround the gurney and he glimpses the shine of a handcuff linking Neal to the hospital bed rail. The hulk of an officer who ends up standing guard duty at Neal's door is unmoved by Peter's credentials. He tries to peer over the man's shoulder to get a view of Neal, but the man must be six six at least and he presents more of a wall than a door.

"He's my CI."

"He's in our custody for cutting his anklet. As soon as feasible he will be transferred to a federal prison infirmary," the officer states without actually looking at Peter.

"Are you insane? He was dragged fifteen feet by a truck after he was hit by a bicyclist. What the hell are you, a robot? Don't you have any brains?"

"Peter!" Elizabeth hauls him over to the side and says as she adjusts his tie. "Remember, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

He growls a little bit but suppresses it and inhales once before going to face off with the man again. "I appreciate your position. I am his handler and I would like to be able to assess the situation, if possible and, of course with your permission." He says the last part through clenched teeth.

The officer looks down at him, and then considers Elizabeth. Peter's fairly sure he only relents because of Ms Cutie Pants and her doe eyed look. He appreciates it but is also offended for all the wrong reasons.

The officer steps aside and they enter the room. He sees the slightest glimmer from Neal's eyes. His face is rimmed with blue so Peter isn't sure he's bruised or tired or just poorly lit. His left leg is in a contraption that Peter can only describe as medieval. There are leads pasted onto his chest and Peter can see scrapes, road burns, and bruises down his front and along his torso. His shoulder looks ripped open as well. There's a bandage on his temple that needs to be changed since old blood is crusted on it.

As they approach the bed, Neal turns his face to the light from the window. His eyes blink once and he rasps out an exhalation. A nurse stands close to him and whispers something.

He answers, "Seven."

She lays a hand on his arm and promises to get him something for the pain.

"Neal?" Peter says.

Neal looks over to Peter smiles and closes his eyes. The nurse chimes in. "He's very heavily medicated right now. They had to repair his knee and it ended up the fibula, the smaller bone in the calf, had been speared through by one of the bicycle spokes."

Elizabeth hisses at his side. Peter flashes his badge and says, "He's my partner, can you tell me anymore?"

"Oh he did well," she says. "From what the doctor reported he's very lucky because one of the spokes nearly hit a major artery. When they were removing it, the artery was nicked, but he’s good now. All sewed up and repaired." She smiles at him after she injects something into the port. "He won't be a wake for several hours. But you can stay as through visiting hours."

Peter slides the chair over for Elizabeth but she shakes her head, and pats the seat. He collapses into it and thinks it might be some time before Neal leaps trams again.

*oOo*

_Still hospital._ He likes this conclusion since he feels like someone pasted his eyelids closed and there's pain up and down his left leg. He wonders if he fell out of a window. It wouldn't be the first time, probably won't be the last time. He opens his eyes and thinks maybe he's turned into one of the cyborgs Mozzie is always warning him about. Or maybe the evil genius doctors are in the middle of turning him into a robot thing.

He shifts in the bed and cries out. That elicits a startled - 'huh?' from across the room and Mozzie peeks at him.

"You're alive."

"Seems that way." Every nerve fiber protests any action and he tries to think about what con or job Mozzie and he were pulling off when a disaster of epic portions happened. He remembers getting shot. He frowns down at his leg. He's certain it was his right leg. Did he fall out the window during the caper to catch Dobbs or whatever his name is?

He looks out the hospital window and knows he is nowhere near his tropical paradise. "Shit."

"What?" Mozzie says and offers him some water. He sips it but it still doesn't allay his fears.

"How long do I have?"

"Have? I'd say about 50 years or so."

"Did I kill someone?" Why would they put him away for fifty years? "I didn't shoot anyone, did I?"

"You're confused."

"Am I?" This isn't going anywhere but in a fine spiral into a whirlpool of confusion. "Why are you here?"

"You'd rather I not be?"

"You hate the hospital," Neal says and wishes there would be more of the good drugs. He cannot stifle a cry from escaping his lips.

"Hey, hey, let me get the nurse," Mozzie says and places the drink on the sliding tray table next to his bed.

The next thing he knows a nurse with hair that is not a natural red or any red that is in the spectrum of natural checks him and injects the tubes connected to his hand. He notices for the first time that he's linked to the bed by handcuffs. He tugs on it and she frowns.

He colors and thinks he might dislike her a little bit even though he's falling into the fog again.

_Morning in the hospital_ He looks around and the day warms the room. He guesses he might have been here for a while since there are numerous balloons and cards and flowers. How come he can't remember any of them? His leg is still in a strange contraption, but it hurts less which is nice. There still isn't an anklet on his leg and surprisingly the handcuff has disappeared. Like he was going to hop down and race away with a leg from a transformer attached to him.

_No radius, no diameter, just me._ He feels open, lost, and a little vulnerable when he thinks of it that way. Maybe Peter was only a dream. He only saw Mozzie, and there's no cuff attaching him to anything anymore. The thought spirits little darts of anxiety through him and he swallows down his fear just as he hears a familiar voice.

"You're awake!" Peter says as he walks in holding a paper cup with steaming coffee in it Neal can smell.

"Am I?"

Peter furrows his brow and says, "I'm pretty sure. You're good."

"What happened to me?" He points to the leg and wonders if it would be a good place to store stuff, there are enough parts and things hanging off it. He could smuggle a painting in that thing.

"You were hit by a cyclist and dragged by a van."

"The van dragged me?" His chest aches a little and he peers down to see a pattern of scabs over his chest and torso.

"Our van did not drag you; another van, unrelated to our van, dragged you. It's a miracle you're not dead."

"You can say that again," Neal says and recalls the piss ant who rode the bike into him. "What about the cyclist?"

"He's no one, no connection to anyone. Seems it was just an accident."

"A happy accident, how lucky am I?" Neal says and stares at his toes, noticing they are bluish black.

"Not happy in anyway," Peter says and puts the cup down.

“Not so much,” Neal agrees. He thinks he could do without the massive thing on his leg and then the real thought, the terrifying thought smashes into him. “Am I? Am I going to be able to walk again?”

The idea that he will not walk, the idea that a two mile radius might not mean much frightens him more than prison, or guns, or even Mozzie and his conspiracy theories. Peter settles down in the chair next to the bed and Neal looks away. His fear clogs his throat and he clings to the blankets gathered about him, fisting his hands. He concentrates on the weave and pattern; he cannot look at Peter.

“You have a long road ahead of you, Neal. The fibula was splintered near the top and your knee, well let’s just say twisted isn’t the right word for it.” Peter stops and searches but gives up. “I can’t describe it but the operation took hours to repair it.”

“Oh.” It is the only sound he manages. Words trip and fall and break, they are useless tools for him.

“But the doctor is confident, you’ll walk again, probably even run.” Peter smiles. “And I know how you like to run.”

“I do,” Neal says and the hollowed feeling in the center of his chest abates. “Especially within my four mile diameter.”

Peter quirks a grin at him. “Four mile diameter?”

“Sounds better than a two mile radius.”

“It certainly does,” Peter says as he nods.

“Haven’t I ever told you, it’s all about how you spin it?”

“Now, you sound like a politician.”

Neal raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Now, I sound like a con-man, Peter.”

Peter bows his head for a moment, then looks back up to Neal. “It’s good to have you back with us.”

“It’s good to be back in my two mile radius or four mile diameter,” Neal replies. They both fall silent for a minute and then Neal adds, “Diameter sounds like a dirty word, doesn’t it?”

Peter rolls his eyes but cannot suppress his laughter. “Well, it’s all about how you spin it.”

And he agrees.

THE END 


End file.
